The Long List of Dammit Jim
by The Tempestuous Muse
Summary: Life on the Enterprise as viewed by it's CMO.  All the insanity, all the shenanigans, and everything that has ever, or will ever, make him break out in one of his trademark phrases.
1. Prognosis

"Buckle Up."

McCoy had started to hate that phrase. It went right on the list under_ 'Punch it Sulu', 'It'll work', 'Trust me Bones' 'Get us the hell out of here Scotty', _and_ 'I didn't __**do**__ anything!_'. Any and all were harbingers of doom and disaster wrapped in madness and more often than not bloodied bodies. Most of the time Jim's. If not Jim's, then security's or engineering from the last boost of whatever the hell it was Scotty pulled out of his Gaelic ass to get the Enterprise to do the impossible for Jim. Again. Not that it was unusual on this ship. Jim constantly demanded the impractical, impossible, and things that broke the laws of reality of his crew on a daily, if not hourly basis. They beat themselves bloody and worked themselves sick to do it for him. Jim, in turn, threw himself into danger to keep every last one of them whole as best he could, and it always, always fell to McCoy to put him and everyone else back together.

How was he supposed to keep the crew in one piece when their damn captain led by a reckless and hazardous example? McCoy could count on one hand how many away missions didn't end with someone stabbed, shot, poisoned, brainwashed, pollen faced, married, or off their ass drunk. Again, that person is usually Jim. Mostly Jim. Almost always Jim. If he didn't make so much by way of nonlethal injury Bingo and wagers with his nursing staff, McCoy may very well start to get pissed at the man.

In his spare time he'd mentioned the wagers and the randomized bingo cards to CMO's on other ships in the fleet. He'd wanted to share the Enterprise's unique methods used to deal with the weirdness of space. The reactions he received ranged from amusement, bafflement, and incredulity. All asked why.

Why?

At the end of the first few months of their five year mission McCoy realized he had several options. He could drink himself stupid, which worked for all of two weeks before Chapel hid his stash and threatened Scotty with various unpleasant diseases to keep his rotgut out of the medical bay so McCoy'd be able to function. He could keep a journal like a thirteen year old girl, even if Jim insisted it wasn't _'just for teens what the hell is wrong with you Bones this is private get out get out!'_.

Exercise did nothing, or immersion in paperwork, and the healing power of tears always seemed like bullshit to him. Plus it was impossible sober, which he was, because of goddamned Chapel. Angel in the emergency room, hard-ass in every other instance. McCoy loved and hated that woman. In a last-ditch attempt before the current set up he decided to rant to the Federation required on ship therapist, which lasted all of two meetings before the poor woman burst into tears and requested a transfer. It wasn't all on him, he swears, but the bet pool was split between his rants and Spock's non answers, to this day no one knows which tipped her over the edge. Or the next one. Or the next one. Frankly the Admiralty got tired of reassigning therapists so the crew of the Enterprise took their current unique and creative defense mechanisms against their issues. Or non-issues, in Spock's case.

Engineering built forts in the Jefferies tubes and assaulted their off duty peers with viscous globs of...something. McCoy only realized how sticky the substance was when three Ensigns showed up glued together by the shoulder and hip, respectively. The Science department still hadn't figured out what they'd used. It took McCoy and Chapel all of two weeks to notice that in accordance with who was shooting at whom, the color and **scent** were different. To keep score. Of course. He had no doubt there was a board up somewhere with names and dates and if Jim had any kind of sense he'd put a stop to it. But since Jim had no sense and encouraged the competition, all McCoy and Spock could do was work out a chemical that dissolved the goo quickly and circulate it among the Engineering and Security division.

Not that Security was in any way, shape, or form involved in aforementioned guerrilla competition.

Even if McCoy had a record of several Engineering ensigns glued together with bright orange globs of goop that reeks of banana daiquiri that said otherwise. So long as no one's incapacitated during an emergency and Scotty and Giotto don't complain, he saw no need to put a stop to it. Even if his nurses began to mix up their own batch of mint green...something. He'd rather not know. As long as they didn't stick him to Jim, he'd live.

Navigation and cartography mapped out supplemental and vulgar constellations based on various agreed upon fixed points of observation. Jim called it Star Porn with far too much relish for McCoy's future ulcer. Especially since Jim offered a month's worth of extra hot water credits to the first group that illustrated and animated an inter-species orgy that featured at least one Klingon, Romulan, a Ba'neth, and a Gorn out of the stars in the neutral zone. When it happened, not if, because on this damn sip it sure as hell _**will**_ happen, McCoy planned to do everything he could to keep Jim from sending it to someone he shouldn't. Which would be anyone at all. Even hell-bent on keeping it from happening he may or may not have money in the betting pool that one or several copies would find their way to the Admiralty. It'd happened before with an animated Star Porn lesbian threesome of Orions made of nebulae from the edges of the Alpha Quadrant.

The Admiralty stopped sending the Enterprise on star mapping missions the next day. After the requisite inquiries and protestations of innocence.

No one ever bought it, but no one could ever prove it was Jim's crew either.

Xenoathropology had taken to categorizing all the groups and subgroups of their peers and various departments, mapped their behaviors, and made a wall with a relationship web that spanned the entire goddamn crew. It was huge, multihued, and a thing of chaotic beauty. Especially when you considered they have an entire second one devoted to the shit they _made up_, because by god they did.

What started as a commentary that may or may not have been a satire of the Federation based on small-scale social experiments and observations brought on by boredom swiftly became something akin to an on ship soap opera. Who ate with whom, who was sick or injured or taken on an away mission could mean anything and everything to them. Every other Thursday they met in rec room 5 to compile their notes, recordings, and observations.

Then? Then they wrote scripts. And auditioned for parts. And added it to the goddamn STORY ARC that was the Enterprise's epic incestuous love affair with itself. Or something. The tag-line changed every damn week depending on who was in charge of writing, and yes McCoy knew this because his goddamn Nurses auditioned for parts or lent their suturing ability to the creation of costumes or whatever it was they needed and they would not stop talking about it while on shift. Ever.

After all that madness was finished the alternating Thursday they acted out what they'd written and the music club played along with over dramatic, weepy tones. It made McCoy ill in a way no hypo could ever cure.

Xenobotany, headed by Sulu, had three teams. One for fruits, one for vegetables, one for flowering plants. All were trying to breed a plant that naturally produced palatable alcohol. The closest they'd come to success was something that looked kind of like an orchid that dripped something that kinda tasted like whiskey. But with twice the alcohol content of Scottie's private stash. As much joy as the plant brought everyone involved in the project, and many that weren't, it and all the notes involved were given over to the grand high priest/ambassador/chancellor/head individual of a planet two months ago to smooth over a bizarre diplomatic incident. They'd tried to sacrifice Chekov and Jim to their gods for their eye color. Or hair color. Or because '_We're just so damn pretty Bones, can't you tell?'_

The aliens took the booze plant and the Enterprise got their navigator and their captain back, even while drugged and then depressed at the loss of their whiskey orchid thing.

There was a moment of silence accompanied by profound weeping in the ranks once the crew learned of the Worchid's fate.

Navigation kept track of the most efficient routs to Risa and other Federation sanctioned pleasure planet from wherever the hell the Admiralty'd sent them. Chekov and Scotty regularly had discussions, heated, almost argumentative discussions, about theoretical physics. About what laws would be twisted, broken, or bent over and violated in the worst way to get them there under a week without blowing up the Enterprise. In case of an emergency. Because _'Cabin fewer is a wery serious affliction!'. _

Wery serious his southern ass. It wasn't serious enough for Chekov and Scotty to hound him all day to rewrite the psych test for that 'affliction'. Especially if it was to include delusions of grandeur and assault with replicated food. God trips and food fights are not enough to make McCoy go through all the damn paperwork.

However in light of yeoman Sanchez' not quite breakdown two weeks ago where he claimed himself the emperor of eclairs and did his damnedest to assault Spock to the point of unconsciousness or death with cream filled pastries, McCoy would consider it. With a glass of whiskey he snuck by Chapel and one of the few pastries still allowed in the replicators after that incident.

The tactical officers had begun what McCoy can only assume is a complicated and ridiculous scavenger hunt. Of events. That must occur on their shift at the bridge. And included the personal lives, reactions, and turns of phrase of the command crew. Whoever was keeping score was making a hefty sum from the included wagers of the other departments. Along with McCoy. It's not his fault Jim was so damn predictable with his '_But Bones!_' and his _'Precisely Mr. Spock.' _

Pike may or may not have a few credits in when he knew Jim was about to face the not so subtle scorn of an older, more experienced Captain. Especially if he knew Jim'd get pissed and run circles around them in whatever joint venture they'd been assigned, succeeding in the ridiculous and almost obscene _without breaking a _**single**_ regulation_.

Uhura and the communication officers kept busy, kept sane by translating human idioms into basic Standard meanings for other cultures, or so they claimed. McCoy knew they were doing it for Spock. The best bit was when they programmed a Kirk to Standard into Spock's universal translator. The bridge watched Jim use his usual lines and have them repeated in a tinny, computerized tone stripped of all his bravado and charisma and made him antsy and red and it was glorious. Scotty and McCoy laughed about it for hours.

Until Uhura added in programs for them as well.

Then? Then it was **war**.

With Jim at the helm, it was always Jim with something this silly and insane and pointless, McCoy and Scotty, with the odd help from Sulu, Chapel, Chekov, and any other member of the crew that the communicator annoyed by spitting out stale definitions of their everyday slang, they built a language. Out of nonsense. McCoy blamed his cooperation on Scotty's liquor and Jim's goddamn eyes and the ever pleading _'Come on Bones, it'll be fun!'. _

Damn Jim and his damn fool ideas.

McCoy thought it was stupid. At least until he saw Uhura and Spock's faces when the previously coherent translator started spouting gibberish, stuttered, and then exploded before either of them could fix it. McCoy watched Uhura go wide-eyed and pale and Spock's eyebrows twitch and race for his hairline and it'd been so gratifying he couldn't screw with them enough. He'd throw out his drawl when he could and started **making up** phrases and slang terms and bits of 'old country wisdom' from his 'Grammy' just to watch the hobgoblin twitch.

It was _beautiful._

The members of the command crew had their own ways of keeping sane. Sulu taught fencing for recreation and combat. McCoy didn't know which class had more members since an equal amount of idiots came in with scrapes and bruises after both of them. When word reached Sickbay of a damn tournament that'd been arranged he set up a chart with the best times for quickest and cleanest application of a dermal regenerator. McCoy'd name the prizes when he could find something all the nurses would agree they want.

He didn't want those damn fools in his Sickbay any longer than he had to, there were other people who aren't idiots that'd probably need his attention. Except anyone from Engineering. And Scotty. McCoy let the Chief Engineer deal with their twisted, special brand of lunacy on his own. McCoy washed his hands of it after the last damn time they limped to him, every last member of Scotty's little team of specialists was stained bright, fluorescent blue. Jim enjoyed it far too much. McCoy made him spend the rest of the shift explaining his outburst to Spock by way of vengeance. _'Smurf blue Bones! My engineering department is a bunch of SMURFS!'_

So. All of Engineering was blue. Except Gaila. She was orange. How that happened he'd never know, but between the color and the fact she smelled like cheap citrus air freshener instead of her usual pheromones he was more than a little out of his depth. After an hour McCoy would've rather taken the pheromones, he'd never be able to look at a citrus fruit the same way again. Ever. Whatever they'd been working on McCoy didn't want to know.

But his nurses did. Even Chapel, the traitor, and they all reported back to M'Benga for his incident chart 'of doom.' Two parts crossword, one part mad libs and five different kinds of crazy scrawled on the wall of his office in different colored marker for the department of the injured party and footnotes for details. Apparently he'd kept one while interning on Vulcan. Just because the cold-blooded elves were logical doesn't mean they were incapable of screwing up spectacularly on occasion.

Reports held firm that Scotty tried to upgrade the Still no one admitted to know about to accelerate the process to obscene levels and make it possible for one to choose a particular flavor of rotgut which would then be dispensed into an innocuous bottle. Gaila's excuse was given with an impressive orange pout. _'An instant booze VENDING MACHINE Doctor, we need that! You know what the captain makes us go through.'_

It had gone well until Keenser fell off from his perch on something onto something else that McCoy couldn't understand through the thick, hysterical brogue of the Enterprise's Chief Engineer. It was a wire or a coupling or a lever or a goddamn button but whatever it'd been it was important and Keenser's fall on it made everything go to hell. Thus: smurf engineers, an orange Orion and Scotty reeked of whiskey and bacon when he'd clearly had neither. He'd be much happier if he had eaten.

McCoy refused to leave him in that condition when the other ensigns started to look at Scotty like he was one of his beloved sandwiches.

Cannibalism wasn't only against Federation Law, it was right on top of Jim's 'Do this and have your ass kicked by Spock while he lectures you on the illogical nature of your species you inferior _' list. Aforementioned list is surprisingly short mostly because Jim defaults the crew's punishment to a well known handful.

A) Time in the brig. _'No, not the fun brig, there is no fun brig Bones stop staring at me like that!'_

B) A mandatory physical with McCoy. At 0400. Before he's had any coffee.

C) Sensitivity lectures by Spock or

D) Fitness training with Giotto and Cupcake. Ensigns wept in fear of the last.

Chekov claimed various hypothetical planets, stars, and nebulae in the name of Mother Russia. There's an entire sub-network on his console that tagged this and that with the Russian Flag and with notations along with false 'captain's logs' that detailed his bravery when he'd conquered these planets. The rest of the navigation offered commentary and supplemental stories that hailed Chekov as a hero. McCoy didn't want to know.

Uhura and Spock had each other, and used one another to keep balanced and relaxed they manage to keep their peers focused when not cuddled up in an illogical display of affection. McCoy called Jim a lying idiot when he claimed that they were together, even when Scotty backed him up on it. They'd been liars and thieves together with a bond made in the midst of hell and mutiny, of course they'd back each other up on anything. Now, though, he could admit that they were well suited and damned adorable. Even if he never said it out loud. Jim did enough for everyone on board. To the point where he'd been threatened with a nerve pinch six times in the last month alone.

Scotty had his still, his theoretical projects and all the Enterprise to keep him insane. Sanity will never be an option, and McCoy thanked Jim every day for his bullshit that calmed Archer down enough to get the Scot on their ship. Even when he'd aggravated him and sent in blue skinned ensigns or vomited up tribbles.

McCoy and Medical? They had their gossip, their wagers, the charts and lists and smug knowledge that they know **everyone's** dirty laundry and get paid plenty to keep it quiet. They also had The Wall. On The Wall was a series of lists, exploits, medical saves, improvised cures with credit given where it's due, strange illnesses, awkward injuries, 'epic' recoveries and infamous pollen afflictions. But there is one called The List.

McCoy doesn't know who started The List, but the handwriting includes all the members of the command crew, most of his nurses, all of his patients, and a handful of diagrams courtesy of Spock, Scotty, and Chekov. An entry on The List is always, always, always caused by one James T. Kirk. It's everything he'd done to make McCoy swear up, down, sideways, backwards, forwards, and in a few strands of non-humanoid languages Uhura was kind enough to teach him that Jim will pull something and get them all killed. Almost every entry on The List is something McCoy has said. Every single entry starts with the same phrase.

"Dammit Jim!"


	2. Infection

Chapter 1: Infection

I don't own Star Trek

* * *

><p>Montgomery Scott was a genius.<p>

Tortured genius if anyone believed him, which they didn't; Jim had a harder time of it in the few hours he'd spent on Delta Vega than Scotty had in the six months he'd been posted there. Lack of sandwiches or real alcohol does not a tortured genius make. Nor does boredom, though the Enterprise had gained a variety of non-regulation upgrades due to said boredom.

A handful were borderline illegal.

Jim denied any knowledge of the upgrades and every time there was an inspection he failed to notice or comment on the cables and casings that Scotty rearranged, cannibalized, and put together in ways their creators never intended. So long as it was just Jim on these inspections, everything went fine. But on occasion Uhura would pick up chatter, a whisper of a rumor that a member of the brass wanted to check in with the shiny new flagship and the Federation's golden boy. Then all of engineering would spend however long they had putting everything back to clear regulation perfection. As long as everything _looked_ like it should, no one cared that the warp casing really housed something twice as powerful and a little more likely to explode.

Sometimes they cut it close, with moments to spare, but there was never anything to alert their guest that Scotty was experimenting or being a little reckless with the Fleet's new pride and joy. Or to alert the fleet that Scotty regularly worked himself into the ground. Because he did, often. Maybe the warp core hummed a little awkwardly, maybe the newest experimental theory that he needed to test, but most often it came back to one thing. Porthos and Admiral Archer.

It was a well-known fact that Archer never forgave Scotty for the beagle incident. Jim had pulled so many favors, cashed so many chips, made so many promises and, if his grin and stories were anything to go by, acted like a bit of a vapid arm candy for a few people that he wasn't too proud of to get Scotty off Delta Vega and on the Enterprise. Archer had been the most resistant, put up the most fuss, because he couldn't forgive Scotty and wanted him to suffer. What he didn't know was this: In his own way Scotty never forgave himself either.

McCoy regularly had to stalk down to engineering and force a sedative and multivitamin hypo into Scotty's system just to get the man to rest. If he didn't work with Jim, Spock, and Chekov to make the Enterprise the fastest, strongest ship in the fleet he tinkered on his still or tested one of his warped ideas to make systems designed to work one way do things they were never intended to do. When he had time Scotty tried to work out the proper equation to find that dog.

That left very little time for sleep, or food, no matter how much McCoy and Keenser tried to remind him. He worked in cycles according to how guilty, sober, or bored he felt. When Archer commed Jim to request a walk through of the Enterprise Scotty was in the lowest down-swing of guilt McCoy had ever seen. It was one part shame for the lost animal, one part fear for his career should he never be able to produce the dog, and five parts wounded pride. Scotty couldn't being wrong, to have a mistake on his record when he knew he could set it right.

So naturally that meant he reworked the previous warp equation he'd used with the dog, lined it up with his trans-warp equation provided by...he never said. Jim didn't either. McCoy knew better than to ask. It was easier to just assume Scotty was a genius.

After he got the equations lined up with a little help from Chekov he submitted a request for a project that would require dismantling and rewiring the entire transportation pad and console. When he finished it should boost the range through both space, and if Scotty's sleep deprived rambles were correct, time. Why work so hard now, several months after he moved to the Enterprise?

He'd heard a bark in the port warp nacelles.

And something stole his food.

And socks.

"...Mandatory bed-rest. Any complaints and I'm giving you an anti-hallucinogenic." After he sent off the sputtering Chief Engineer McCoy resumed his earlier paperwork and told Jim to ignore the project submission. It wouldn't lead anywhere useful as long as Scotty was this delusional due to mental and physical exhaustion. Any large experiments at this stage would most likely get the wrong wires crossed and the damn ship blown to hell. Best not to tempt fate. With that he put the ordeal from his mind. He ignored any further reports from Keenser of similar phantom dog related events, and any gossip floating around the ship. The short Engineer enabled Scotty more than Jim. He'd thought that'd be the end of it until the rest of Engineering sent in similar reports to security. Then the Science labs heard barking and had samples go missing. Then the Botany labs found...feces. In their gardens.

Everyone was mad. It was a prank war gone horribly wrong. Jim got bored and everyone suffered his inane, more childish than usual antics. That had to have been it. Then McCoy found slobber and teeth marks on his favorite Ol' Miss tee-shirt. After a few moments spent in incredulous and infuriated ranting he left his room to hunt Scotty down. "Where in the damn ship did you hear barking and how is this shit possible if the computer hadn't registered any extra lifeforms on board?"

One interrogation, three hours with Spock, two with Chekov, and a day where they avoided Galia hounding the rest of the command crew for harboring a panty thief and lingerie abuser McCoy and Jim gave Scotty the go ahead to do whatever he needed to find the damn phantom dog. He set about dismantling the damn thing as soon as they handed him a screwdriver.

Then Archer commed. He politely requested that since their path took them close to Starbase 17, 15, wherever the hell it was, that they go ahead and drop out of warp. So they could meet them. And see the ship. He said he'd have a shuttle out to them in four hours, if not less.

Jim?

Panicked.

The transporter room was a mass of wires and somewhere in the thick of it was their Chief Engineer. Uhura had Communications disabled to keep anything from sparking and killing him. So Jim had ensigns run back and forth between the transporter pad and the bridge to keep himself updated. After an hour they were threatening mutiny if Jim sent them down again, not even Spock's not-glare and quirked brow cowed them.

So Jim left Spock in charge of the bridge and started running down to find Scotty and get the room cleaned back up. Archer was due in less than an hour and like every other damn time things started to go south Jim commed him out of his paperwork and records in Sickbay to the mess of the transporter room. And gave him that look.

That too blue, too wide, too vulnerable to possibly belong to James T. Kirk puppy eye special. The one that meant to make whoever it turned on feel like Jim knew they could do anything. Move mountains. Build a warp core out of string and spit. Save the goddamn earth. And after the look? The question. The same. Damn. Question.

"Please Bones?"

"Dammit Jim! I'm a doctor, not a magician! How do you expect me to fix this? Hypo Archer when he steps on-board?" Frustrated and growling McCoy dug through wires to find Scott, elbow deep in bits and parts slick and electric in ways that were far too similar to entrails for his comfort. At Jim's thoughtful look he glared and reached out, hand slapping upside Jim's head. "No, oh no. I am **not** risking a court-martial for your crazy engineer, you said you'd keep him out of trouble all on your own when he came on-board!"

"But Bones we need more time! If Archer sees this he'll ship Scotty right back to Delta Vega and I promised I wouldn't let that happen."

"I don't care what you promised, that doesn't make me any more able to keep him from seeing this or more likely to knock him out for you. And no, you can't ask Spock to pinch him."

Jim blinked over his shoulder, face far too blank for any kind of good. "I wasn't going to ask him to."

"No you were going to order him to with some kinda ass backward regulation loophole and that'd only get you both court martialed and leave Sulu in charge of this ship! _Sulu_. I am _not_ working under Sulu and I'm not taking over for him when he breaks down from the stress! I'm a doctor, not a captain!"

"Oi, if ye both gonna yap up there a'boot m'impend'n doom, could ye not do it a wee bit quieter? Tis a delicate operation I'm in th' middle of right now." Scotty's voice was somewhat muffled by the layers of cable, but clear enough for them to register his almost hysterical irritation.

It was enough for McCoy to worm a hand into the mess and grab a hold of something that felt like a shoulder. If he was less than gentle when he hauled Scotty out, well, no one said anything. If he gave him a firm shake without any due cause before releasing him, they didn't bother looking. "Delicate? Delicate. You call this evisceration of our ship a **delicate** operation?"

"I didnae eviscerate our lady! I'm just giv'n her a bit o a face lift."

"Face lif- this is performing a face lift with a _chainsaw_. You've got the entire pad dismantled and- where is the console? It was bolted to the hull, how did you pull it up? _WHERE DID IT GO?_"

"BONES! This isn't _helping_. Come on, we need to get this back together and hidden at the very least. Doesn't even need to work." Jim hauled Scotty away from McCoy's glare and growing threat of shaking their chief engineer a second time. Possibly a third. Didn't matter.

"Starfleet protocol requires a small transport demonstration to ensure everything is in working order for every inspection. I know you are aware of this Jim." Of course the hobgoblin had to put his two cents in.

"Not. Helping. Spock!"

"We can just say we had a wee bit o' a bug and its nonoperational f'a few more hours while I work out th'kinks?"

"Isn't this what got you kicked to Delta Vega to begin with, working out kinks?"

"...Yae dunnae have t'bring up _that_ Cap'n."

While they argued several more red-shirted engineers popped out of the masses of wire, scrambling to connect and cover the tangled mess. They unearthed casings, shoved wires and cables back to where they belonged. If they couldn't get it functional, they would do what they could to get it to look normal.

"As it is, if we tried to transport anything now, what would happen?"

"Erm. I'm nae too sure exactly Cap'n, though I think it may not be able t'move anything at all."

"Actually captain, as long as the power source remains connected to the console and at least one pad is intact, the transporter would be technically functional. I would not recommend its use however."

"So what do we transport for the demo, a grapfrui- no, Jim, NO. It'll blow up on the pad!"

"You don't know that for sure though, right? It could...not blow up?"

"The statistical likelihood of a complete and ideal transportation is less than 0.53%."

"So a live demo's out. We'll give a BS reason, blame it on anything but Scotty."

"It will reflect poorly on him that there is an issue with the transporter that hasn't been reported or corrected."

"And Archer is digg'n for any excuse to punt Scotty right back. Goddammit Jim, couldn't you wait till we were farther out to sign off on this insanity?"

"Hey, you're the one that wanted to find the dog so you could tan his mangy hide for what happened to your dumb shirt!"

"That dumb shirt is my **lucky** shirt! It's the shirt I wore when I passed my medical exams, when I proposed, the night Joanna was born, and under our uniforms the day of your hearing. You know, the day we failed to die horribly?"

Jim's eyes went wide for a moment before crinkling a bit at the corners. McCoy knew damn well Jim figured out exactly what shirt he was talking about now. It was one Jim was equally fond of for different and borderline disturbing reasons. Before he could open his fool mouth to make any potentially lewd comments Spock murmured something unexpected. Well not entirely unexpected, but the lightness in his eyes and faint twitch to his lips was entirely out of the norm.

"I fail to see how exposing the currently hypothetical canine to ultraviolet radiation in an attempt to increase its nonexistent melanin count is a suitable punishment. Canines do not produce melanin in defense. You would only succeed in giving the animal a sunburn, which would go against your oath to do no harm. Wouldn't it Doctor?"

McCoy went red in the face, glare snapping from Jim to Spock. The vein in his forehead was visibly throbbing when he took a deep breath to really rip into the cold-blooded hobgoblin when Jim cut in. Wide eyed and a little...proud? What the hell.

"Spock did...did you just crack a joke?"

"Vulcans do not joke Captain."

"But-"

"I simply made an observation. That it was light enough for you to consider it humorous and possibly break the tension is a pleasant side effect. I believe it is a tactic which you employ often Jim."

McCoy blinked, more than a little dumbfounded. "Why would you want to emulate Jim? Ever?"

"I have found when humans become stressed, and you in particular doctor, your heart rate and blood pressure increase to almost harmful levels. Jim has expressed concern for your well-being on numerous occasions. As his first officer and his friend I am obligated to ensure his continued mental health by observing your physical health and reacting accordingly."

"I never knew you cared elf."

"Aye, we've all got warm fuzzies now and it's luvly, but can we focus on the arrival o th' man that wants me stranded on th' ass end o' Delta Vega?"

Jim whirled to slap Scotty on the shoulder, a familiar and horrible grin on his face.

"...don't say it, please dear god don't say it." Low and under his breath but McCoy looked to the side to Spock's equally grave and wary expression.

"Don't worry Scotty."

Shit. He said it.

McCoy braced himself for the inevitable follow-through and caught the jump in a muscle of Spock's jaw with no little amusement.

"I have a plan!"

Inwardly McCoy groaned and shook his head before turning to Spock. "...is it too late to sedate Jim and get this shit cleaned up?"

"Unfortunately? Yes doctor."

"It's not that bad Bones. Relax, I've got this."

Oh dear god it was the triad. One was bad enough, but all three in the same conversation?

"It hasn't been terrible serving with you Mr. Spock."

"I am of a similar opinion Dr. McCoy."

"Jim yae th' best Cap'n anyone could e'er hope for, but how exactly are we keep'n me from a cold, lonesome fate?"

Apparently McCoy's earlier crack about smuggling Jim on the Enterprise had inspired the plan. McCoy could feel the heat of Spock's gaze on the side of his face bore deeper and deeper the more Jim elaborated on his idea. It was just a look though. A not-glare. Because '_Vulcans do not glare Doctor I am looking at you in the same manner I always do.'_

The only thing worse than being forced to help with a James T Kirk special was inspiring the damn thing. Their current system of punishment for this shit was similar to a swear jar. But worse. Because it's **Jim**. For every time you get dragged into helping him? Ten Credits. Every time you** enable** him? Twenty. Every time you inspire one of his damn fool plans? Fifty credits and a bottle of liquor for the rest of the command crew. McCoy just shot himself in the foot, and Spock would make damn sure he paid up at the end of this mess.

"Quarantine." Jim said.

"I'll have to make a report for it, oh, a week ago."

"We can fudge the logs. We'll just shut down this section, have you treating some of the afflicted while Spock and I show Archer around the rest of the ship!"

"One thing-"

"There are several issues with this plan that I can see Captain."

"Okay, fifty things, but one huge thing."

"What's the big thing?"

"The hobgoblin can't act. At all."

"Dr. McCoy is correct in his assessment, derogatory comments aside."

"I'll just do all the talking." Jim smirked.

"Archer won't buy it kid. Spock's supposed to explain you and your damn fool ideas to the brass and we don't' have time to get a solid script down. You can improvise out of damn near anything, but that doesn't mean the rest of us can."

"Have you and Mr. Scott both not, on numerous occasions, 'pulled a miracle out of your ass' because the captain asked it of you?"

"Aye but- wait did ya just say-"

"We have. And if I never hear you talk about my ass again it'll be too damn soon."

"And does the rest of our command team, if not the entire crew improvise massively as the situation dictates?"

"...Yes."

"So why is it so difficult to imagine that I would be able to do the same? Such assumptions made without any facts to support them are illogical."

"..."

"He's got you there Bones."

"Aye commander, but can ya quickly and readily mislead, misinform, and quite possibly blatantly lie t'a superior officer?"

"If the cause is sufficient, yes."

"...and my continued employment on our dear lady is sufficient cause?"

"Affirmative."

"Well now that we all know that we love each other so damn much, can we get to the part where we face an epidemic that's serious enough to quarantine but not lethal enough to alert the Admiralty?"

"Something that'd be embarrassing to have but is simple to treat."

"...Jim no. Whatever it is, NO!"

Eventually Jim conned, wheedled, whined, and finally ordered Spock and McCoy to review and edit an entry in the medical log for a mission two months ago. There'd been three ensigns from security, it was almost always security if it wasn't Jim, that came in contact with a member of the alien flora. It's pollen produced a bizarre reaction in most humanoids. Contact with the pollen caused every bodily fluid to gradually turn a violently bright color based on their personal body chemistry. It also caused excessive sweating. For the most part the popular shades for the ensigns were blue. They sweat blue, spat blue, wept blue, sneezed blue, and very briefly bled blue. Jim wanted to see if they ejaculated blue _'for science, Bones!'_

McCoy drew the line at that. There was no need for seminal samples for something this harmless and bizarre. And Jim's gleeful smile when he suggested it was five levels of disturbing.

Sulu kept a few saplings of the tree in a secluded, sealed area of the botany gardens to study the pollen and it's other less ridiculous side effects. They should have enough of the muck to infect fifty members of the crew before Archer arrived. Since it didn't hurt of course the crew thought it would be great fun and lined up for a face-full of the pollen. A tiny, quickly repaired breach made in the seal of the saplings' chamber, and the air circulation system on the port side near the transport deck dosed with enough pollen to register as a gradual buildup would be their proof. For the sake of validity. Paranoia seemed safe enough with all the regulations they broke, ignored, and laughed at to keep Scotty on-board.

Scotty locked down the area around the transporter room to buy himself and his handful of engineers more time; McCoy and his staff suited up as per regulation before they lined up all the afflicted and diagnosed them for the forms and records required by all medical incidents in Starfleet. Damn Jim for making him wade through the red tape and paperwork. For the records.

The fake records. This had better not get his license suspended. If it did McCoy swore he'd kill Jim. He might kill the kid anyway for how he filled the Sickbay with a rainbow assortment of the enterprise's personnel. Most of the human males secreted blue, like the first three cases on record. The women? Green. Except Galia again. The few Orion crew-members sweated orange. Keenser was purple. McCoy didn't know how that thing could sweat, or that he'd been anywhere near the pollen. But he did work with the other infected engineers, he knew Galia'd gone right back down to help. Which meant the transport pad and console would be covered in orange and blue sweat. That still didn't explain the surge of crew-members that arrived for the repressant hypo. Then he stopped to think about it.

It took him all of ten seconds to figure out why before he commed the bridge. "Dammit Jim! Tell your damn crew to quit smuggling out the pollen to attack their peers; this needed to be a closed epidemic, not a ship-wide one!"

"Does this not make our claim more valid Doctor?" Even over the link Spock sounded too damn pleased at McCoy's irritation. In a subtle, Vulcan way. It was still smug, and McCoy still wanted to hit the bastard for it. Potential broken knuckles and time in the brig aside of course.

"Not if we're trying to sell that we've caught and have quarantined the damn problem."

"Alright Bones, I'll have Chekov make the announcement-"

"No, Jim, You won't." McCoy pointed his comm to the nearest bio-bed where their young navigator flushed blue and waved at him, voice loud enough for Jim to hear over the line.

"I am so sorry keptin. Sulu did not tell me he had some of that pollen left in his hair when we fenced together after alpha shift."

"Oh dear god that means the rest of his class is probably-" McCoy cut himself off and turned slowly, Spock's voice even **more** amused at this turn of events.

"In a line behind you doctor."

"...goddammit. Sickbay out. Chapel!"

"I've already got Angie and Julie on the forms sir. We'll get them processed and into the quarantined zone." Bless the woman, she and the other nurses hypo'd and shoved padds of forms that needed filling at every member of Sulu's fencing class. They needed to move the group in Sickbay along so they could tend to the rest of the damn idiots. Even if there were more of the damn idiots than he'd expected. McCoy should have learned by now that if Jim had a plan something would go wrong before it worked out. Every damn time, something would go wrong. He'd earned enough credits to buy Joanna several honest to god books on real paper for her birthday when he made bets on what would go wrong and when.

But now he needed to focus. "Which includes the extended Sickbay wings beta through-"

"Not really sir."

"...Come again?" McCoy knew there was a surplus of infected crew-members, that it wasn't a horribly inconvenient reaction and that most didn't really care about, but why move the quarantined zone? And to where?

"The captain moved the quarantine zone to the transporter room and the lower deck rec rooms."

"How many damn idiots came in contact with that damn pollen? We only dosed fifty and-"

"Kirk to McCoy."

"McCoy here, what the hell Jim, this shit is spreading everywhere! Why aren't the damn decam filters doing their job?"

"..." Jim's continued silence wasn't doing McCoy's health any favors. That was the silence of guilt. Of Jim knowing damn well he'd said, done, or thought about doing something that would give McCoy a hell of a headache. Something against regulation that Spock couldn't stop in time. Just. Something besides breathing. McCoy took three deep breaths of his own to calm himself before he managed to grind out the question.

"What. Did. You. Do?"

"It wasn't me, I swear! Well... it was me, but indirectly and we really need to get some people shore leave if they're gonna hold grudges."

"..."

"It was those ensigns I had playing messenger boy earlier."

"...how many got infected Jim?"

"We're looking at a little under two thirty?"

"I hate you so damn much right now."

"Love you too Bones, Kirk out."

Yeah, McCoy was gonna kill that kid.

Between the hundred or so extra crew-members blinking brightly colored saline from their eyes and a lengthy fantasy of what exactly he'd do to Jim once this was all over McCoy didn't realize that Admiral Archer had arrived and was touring the enterprise until he, Jim, and Spock were hovering at the edges of his vision in standard fleet bio-hazard suits. He didn't have time for anything more than a grunt and a nod before focusing on the very pissed and very green Uhura. Well it was more of a turquoise. Not the worst look for her, even if she was glaring murder at Jim's back and letting loose a wonderful blue streak in Romulan.

"Do I even wanna know?"

"It's his fault. He didn't do this, but it's still his fault."

"When is it not his fault. Ever?"

"When it's Scotty's, or Sulu's."

"Point." McCoy finished writing Uhura's diagnosis up and gave her a hypo of the requisite suppressant. She didn't even flinch. She never flinched. Most of the crew didn't either. "C'mon, you're good to go, just head down to the rec-room and try not to kill anyone. It's not their fault Jim's a moron."

McCoy waved Uhura out and turned his attention to the next idiot in line. Report, diagnosis, hypo, record. Lather, rinse, repeat. And so it would go until Archer left. If everything went smooth. But when in god's name did anything ever go smooth for this ship? Never, that's when. So instead of a mass colorful crew-members being the rough patch, it was a surge of reports from the clean sectors of the ship that complained of shrapnel bruising.

Caused by grapefruit.

McCoy took a deep breath, counted to ten, and had medical crews sent out. Bruises didn't need the CMO. Paperwork did. He didn't bother to ask, he figured it was Scotty. So long as it didn't happen in Sickbay or anywhere Archer wandered with Jim and Spock, it wasn't his problem.

Ten minutes and five reports of explosive citrus later Sickbay's luck ran out. More than it had with the extra patients, anyway. There was no reason to expect any part of the plan to twist wrong here, but of course it did. When he looked back McCoy might laugh about it with Jim and some Romulan Ale. But now it was just one damn thing too many on top of this huge clusterfuck. It literally blindsided him. McCoy had turned his back on a patient to grab a padd from Chapel when he heard it. The telltale whirr of energy and atoms that preceded a transport. Wide eyed he whirled to the side and caught the glimmer of something roughly spherical taking form by the door to his office.

"Oh SHI-"

"HIT THE DECK!"

"What the-"

"Everyone DOWN!" McCoy bellowed , taking enough time to drag down Chapel and two other nurses from the line of fire.

Less than half a second later the melon, apparently they were out of grapefruits, exploded in a pulpy mess. Juice, seeds, and wet red flesh coated the side of McCoy's face and several of his crewmen. Sticky, stunned and irritated he hauled himself back upright to survey the damage.

"Everyone alright?" The grumbled affirmatives broken by a handful of hysterical giggles.

Fantastic. McCoy looked over to Chapel and scraped some of the mess from his face. "I'm going to go kill our chief engineer. You keep everyone alive."

"Yes Sir."

On his way out McCoy commed Scotty. May as well give him a heads up for his oncoming death. "McCoy to Engineering."

"Oh, is that were that un went? Sorry Doctor!" Too high and bright to really be apologetic at all, but stress would do that to a man. McCoy could let it go this once. Maybe.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"We've got ten minuets t'fix this."

"Why the hell did fruit appear in my Sickbay?"

"We're try'n ta get it the next room over."

"Your aim is way off Scotty."

"Well me somth'n I don't kno- OI!"

"Scotty what-?" The sound of the transporter whirred on the other end of the comm, once, twice, and then a moment of silence. He heard a hushed murmur of '_did it work this time?'_ before a loud, violent spurt of exploding fruit. Then soft groans and some laughter much like he'd heard up in his Sickbay. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation started to warp the minds of his nursing staff and, apparently, Scotty's Engineering crewmen.

"Alright, I got some good news."

"You can aim accurately again."

"Aye."

"But the fruit still explodes."

"Aye."

McCoy took the first turn out of the turbolift too fast to keep from barreling into Spock. Archer and Jim were just a few feet behind. He paused to swear under his breath before he offered Scotty the closest thing to a heads up he was liable to get. They'd do what they could to keep Archer out of the quarantined area, but with the suits there was no way to bar him entirely. "Scotty you've got ten seconds."

"Right. Engineering out."

"Doctor...are you aware?" Spock trailed off as Archer and Jim caught up with them. Had he been anyone else he would have gestured to McCoy's fruit splattered appearance. As it was McCoy received a very puzzled and arched look, one of the Vulcan's brows twitching up ever so slightly. The _'I am puzzled and somewhat amused but do not know which I should really feel'_ look.

McCoy hated that look.

"A patient got aggressive." He offered with a faint shrug. What else could he say, that Scotty was porting fruit all over the ship in an attempt to recalibrate the transporter? It'd get the man kicked back to Delta Vega faster than anything else he'd ever done.

"With fruit?" Archer reached out and brushed a lumpy bit of pulp from the shoulder of McCoy's bio-suit. The squelch it made when it struck the ground was almost obscene.

"Yes Sir."

"That a common problem?"

"No Sir."

"Side effect of the pollen?"

"Possibly..." McCoy figured he may as well bluff as much as possible, and hell, everyone's agreement with this damn fool plan proved they were all bored outside their minds. This many months without conflict or leave drove people a little mad. In his medical opinion. "Might also be cabin fever."

"I'll sign off on leave when we're done here."

"Thank you sir."

"Everything is in order Gentlemen. Good job son."

"Thank you Admiral." How Jim managed so sweet a smile with his jaw clenched McCoy would never know. Maybe practice. It was something to admire in the middle of this damn mess. He didn't even flinch or glare at Archer when he slapped his shoulder, even if he did the same to everyone else. But when Jim did it the gesture was one of camaraderie. When Archer did it, along with the 'son' it was condescending as hell. McCoy felt himself bristle on Jim's behalf. Spock was already tense, but that might be due to the misdirection he had engaged in up to this point. Ever the diplomat, Jim's grin was still plastered on his face. He turned to the left, obviously intent on sending Archer back down to the shuttle bay. It'd been stressful but the crises averted. "Let's get you back to your shuttle so you can sign off on that leave, huh?"

"I haven't seen Engineer Scott yet." Archer turned in the opposite direction with a look to Jim that made it plain he expected no argument.

"He's down in, well, Engineering. Buffing our decam filters."

"Shouldn't take a minute."

Spock stepped around the fruit splattered CMO to take some of the condescending attention off their captain. Jim might smile pretty but it was obvious he was on the last threads of patience. "I was unaware that a standard inspection required that the Chief Engineer be examined, especially while he's occupied with operations vital to containing the quarantine."

"Call it a personal interest."

"We could comm him-"

"Engineer Scott is in the midst of a delicate and vital task Admiral. Interrupting him before the filters are adjusted for the pollen would be unwise."

"Your CMO says it's harmless. The crew'll keep."

"..." Shit. Jim was giving him that look. That '_Please do something before I run my mouth look.' _What the hell did he expect him to do, add extra symptoms? Say that the bio-suits would fail after sustained exposure to the dust-like pollen? McCoy went with a variation on the truth. Maybe it'd be enough. "Physically yes, but the mental strain can evoke extreme emotional outbursts-"

"Like the group of science officers singing It's Not Easy Being Green?"

"Potentially violent outbursts."

"Like throwing fruit."

"There are worse things than fruit in engineering, Admiral." Jim cut in only to get shot down with another look.

"I'll take my chances son."

McCoy was pretty sure that Jim would hurt someone in a creative and disturbing fashion if Archer called him son again. Or kid. McCoy was the only one allowed to call him that and even then very rarely. Still, Archer looked poised and primed to make it an order. They'd bought Scotty as much time as they could.

"If you would follow me, Admiral." Jim inclined his head towards the lift and spun on his heel. Back straight, shoulder's tight, long fast strides; a drill sergeant's wet dream. McCoy exchanged a quick look with Spock before they both hurried to follow. That stalk, regulation perfect ant tense as hell, was Jim's last tell before his temper broke. McCoy figured Archer had needled Jim about every damn little thing on the ship for it to get this bad.

A scowl and a raised brow to Spock got a faint nod in return, skin around his eyes tight and locked into Vulcan banality. Archer'd been at them both then. Shit. McCoy was gonna have to pull a miracle out of his- hat. His hat. Not his- goddamn the hobgoblin for saying that.

He repressed a shudder and grunted when Spock looked over, curious. McCoy didn't have the luxury of explaining himself now, but the cold-blooded elf would remember to ask later. He always did.

"Admiral, it might be a bit rough in engineering." McCoy fell in step along with Spock a few feet behind Archer and Jim. If it was going to come to blows he may as well be on hand. "Scotty's had his crew working on the filters and-"

"How is that a problem? Every ship has a rough engineering deck."

"It might be a little rougher than most." With that McCoy dropped it, any further attempts to dissuade Archer would just make him suspicious. Or spiteful. McCoy couldn't tell.

The ride down to engineering and transport was long and awkward. No one attempted small talk. Spock was Vulcan and found it pointless, Jim was too wired and McCoy had no goddamn idea what to say that wouldn't get them all court martialed. All the tension would give McCoy a headache if he had to sit through much more of this. Even when the turbo lift slowed to a stop and they all stepped out to the engineering deck no one spoke. It was quiet for the last leg of the trip, enough so that Scotty's Gaelic swearing and the odd thrumming pulse of the warp engines echoed down the hall.

"Just hold **still.**" Scotty's voice crackled a bit, or what he worked on crackled, because voices don't crackle. Unless he pulled the trick McCoy thought he had, which wouldn't help the 'keep Archer from being suspicious' plan at all.

"That is particularly ominous." Spock murmured.

"Not anymore than usual." Jim shook his head and signed them through the quarantined sector. The dim lighting of engineering hid the bulk of Scotty's usual mess, cables, wires, casings, pipes and housings in all appearances up to regulation standards. At least to the untrained eye. Archer didn't comment, just cut through, weaving through the narrow walkways and pipes to the heart of engineering.

It was empty. McCoy's first guess was correct. The clanks of work and Gaelic curses came from a comm unit left open, probably Scotty's, to give the cursory illusion of attendance.

"Computer, locate Montgomery Scott." Admiral Archer's voice was falsely pleasant, or maybe sincerely so. He could be hiding his temper or genuinely gleeful that Scott was causing trouble. Easier to transfer him out to Delta Vega, no matter what Jim might want. For some twisted reason half the Admiralty and most of the more experienced captains got a kick out of denying Jim anything and everything when they could. Maybe to prove a point, McCoy didn't know. It was politics of a sort and other than sending Jim to his office pissed off it didn't affect him directly for the most part.

With Scotty's provided location, the transporter room where else would he be, they led Archer up the catwalks and through a side door back to the bright hallways most Admirals and diplomats were familiar with seeing. Two lefts, a right, a stretch of hall before Archer suspected they might be taking the long way down and voiced his concerns.

"Just avoiding the quarantined areas Admiral. We're almost there." Jim's smile was bright, sharp, and horribly insincere. Without any real cause to call him on it, Spock would cite regulation and commend the logic of the captain's actions if he tried, Archer had to let it go. Smooth save by the Vulcan, McCoy made a mental note to buy him some chocolate or something. Whatever intoxicated Vulcans. He'd have to ask Uhura.

When he dragged his mind back to the present McCoy noted that they were just two doors down from the transport room. Jim's shoulders went tight and his smile was more painted on than before, and Spock's fingers twitched where he had them tucked behind his back. McCoy could only hope that somehow Scotty had managed to put everything back together. He was the only engineer in the goddamn Fleet, if not the universe, that could pull the ship back together after one of Jim's more spectacular plans...and McCoy liked him. Just a bit. When he didn't send exploding fruit to his Sickbay.

The doors to the transporter room slid open and...where there was once chaos and wires there was now a semblance of order. Just a bit. The wires and casings were back to where they belonged and the pad was intact. The console was not. Scotty was underneath, swearing and twisting a mass of wires back into place.

"Engineer Scott!"

"Oh fer-Admiral!" Sheet white but grinning like a madman, Scotty hauled himself into view. "Always a pleasure t'see ya Admiral."

"What are you doing?"

"Just a wee bit o maintenance on th' transport Admiral."

"And it requires...this?" Archer motioned to the mess of wires.

"Well I woulda had it done earlier, but the filters needed a bit o-buff'n."

"Not what I asked Scott."

"Aye, it needed rewir'n"

"I doubt it needed this much."

"Ye welcome t'yer opinion Admiral." Scotty's light tone didn't sit well with the Admiral at all. Such a cavalier attitude was more than a little ballsy, but McCoy figured Scotty knew the game was over no matter what happened. Unless there was a miracle, he was off the ship as soon as Archer could send a transmission to the rest of the Admiralty. Dammit.

Archer turned to Jim, voice seeped and acidic. "Did you sign off on this?"

"I let Scotty do anything." Jim's tone was laid back and casual. Far too casual. He either figured that he could pull strings and dance around Archer's wish to rid him of his Chief Engineer, or he simply didn't care anymore.

"Anything?"

"Unless it'll kill him or destroy the ship."

"...anything."

"I've yet to have a problem."

The glower was out in full force now and it shifted from Jim's insolence to Scotty's continued attempts to set the wires back into place. "What sort of maintenance?"

"Just somth'n t'boost the signal."

"Like you did with Porthos?"

McCoy had to grab the back of Jim's collar to keep him still. He hauled him back, one hand firm on his shoulder, speaking in the language he, Jim, and Spock developed over their months working together. Something they'd built up while working in tense situations where they couldn't say what they wanted or really meant. Situations where they'd learned to thrive, where they supported and enabled and restrained each other when needed. Theirs was a language of quirked brows, curt nods, hands on shoulders and biceps and measured looks.

'_Keep still'_. McCoy said with a squeeze to Jim's shoulder and a shake of his head. '_Don't give him trouble. Don't say anything.'_

Jim, taut and quietly furious and so damn still stepped back. They watched Archer start quizzing Scotty. Every question pointed, aimed to undermine Scotty's methods, his thought processes. It was vicious and frustrated Jim. No one should question his crew like this. McCoy knew Jim wouldn't stand for it. They needed to do something and fast. They needed some kind of bullshit to spin. A distraction, an excuse, anything to get Archer out while keeping Scotty.

'_Any ideas?''_ A tip of his head to Spock, eyes flicking from the Vulcan to Archer and back again.

Anyone else wouldn't have noticed the slight shake of Spock's head, less than a millimeter in either direction. No ideas, no plan, and both Jim and Spock were too aggravated to attempt diplomacy. And that was McCoy's weakest suit. Without a line of bullshit he went with the harshest truth available. Still. They'd loose Scotty to this if he didn't at least try.

"Admiral."

Archer pulled back from his discussion with Scotty. "Yes Doctor?"

Stupid, so damn stupid to say this, to try to explain, but it couldn't be that damning, could it? Hell it might get Archer off Scotty's back to know that he and half the command crew were working to get the dog back. "Scotty's been-"

"I have it!" The voice was soft and tinny over Scotty's comm. Chekov launched into an equation so fast Scotty had to ask him to repeat it four times while he finished rewiring the console.

"Commander Spock, could ye check th'math f'me? I cannae do it m'self."

"Certainly." Spock cut between Archer and the console, shielding Scotty with his body while he went over the equation several times. He and Jim ignored any sputtering on Admiral Archer's part, working out the details.

"How's it look Spock?" Jim was already going over the previous equations, all his focus locked on the promise of a resolution. Of results. Of the impossible becoming possible through wit and will.

"Ensign Chekov's calculations are correct captain. I would recommend a test with..." an infinitesimal pause as his gaze flicked to McCoy, the tightness around his eyes gone and replaced with a subtle softness and warmth he attributed to amusement. "Fruit before we attempt the actual retrieval."

"Retrieval of what?"

"That'd be tell'n Admiral. Ye'll see in a wee bit." The last bit of wiring finished Scotty crawled out from under the console and slid the access panel back into place. Now everything looked perfect. Which, by Scotty's standards, meant it would work perfectly and then some and everything would go how they needed it to, or it'd blow up in their faces. Literally.

"What are you doing? Why test with-"

"You might want to step back Admiral." Jim had a suited crewman lead Archer back from the pad while another set a melon in place. And ran to hide behind the console.

"Thanke yae so much f'the vote of confidence Cheryl." All Scotty got from the young woman was a whimper in response. Their Chief Engineer shrugged and input the coordinates for the next room along with the reworked equation, eyes maniac and bright. "If this works, and it should, I think we can settle our disagreement f'good Admiral."

And then he started up the transporter. Energy whirled and spun around the melon, brighter and faster than it did before. The whine was higher, clearer, less of a sound and noise and more of a clear thrumming note that rang through the transporter room. Just on the other side of the partition the process began in reverse, the melon vanished from the pad and reappeared on the small towel laid out over the hastily cleaned mess of the last one.

Except it didn't.

What had gone over was a melon, ripe and ready for consumption. What appeared in the adjacent room was a small sphere of fruit, a melon just beginning to take form. The timing was accurate, and Jim had to slap Scotty's back to get the man to breathe through his pleased crowing.

"It works!"

"Yes, but to what end?"

Before Jim or Spock could explain anything Scotty altered the coordinates, the equation, laughed like the madman he could be when his theories, his equations worked the way he wanted them to. "Ta this end Admiral!"

The hum rang through the room once more, sharp and clear. Energy whirled, hummed, and for a moment the entire goddamn transporter room started to buzz. McCoy felt the thick of the vibration in his bones. Spock faltered and pressed a hand to his forehead, far too Vulcan to cover his ears. Over it all Scotty laughed and laughed and laughed. Archer wasn't amused, shouted over the noise, demanded an explanation.

With a pop, and a bark, the energy condensed into the shape of a six month old beagle puppy.

"Porthos?"

"...Fascinating."

"It works! Ha! Take that Dr. Goldschmidt!"

The dog had been freed from whatever bizarre holding pattern Scotty sent it to a year ago, he started to explain to Spock. It explained nothing about why food and clothing went missing, about why there were teeth marks on McCoy's shirt, but Archer was on the padd and combing his fingers along the beagle's ears, cooing at Porthos in a way that would definitely have Jim blackmailing him later. The Hardassed Admiral all soft and loving up a puppy like a mother over her newborn. McCoy didn't care. Their crisis was now well and truly averted. And that's all that mattered.

"Well. I have to apologize for being such an ass now, don't I?"

"We weren't going to say anything Admiral." McCoy relaxed at that. Jim knew when to hold his tongue at least. "...but you were kind of a dick."

Dammit why didn't Jim ever keep his mouth shut? But Archer just laughed and slapped Jim on the back, all friendly now that he had his dog back and proof that the Enterprise was run by a genius, that Scotty deserved his place there. Jim led him back out of the transporter room to discuss the finer points of the report Archer planned to send back to the rest of the Admiralty. Just to be safe. Then Archer, puppy in tow, forgave Scotty and offered a commendation for his record. Scotty was happy enough that Archer wouldn't bother Jim about his presence on the Enterprise anymore. And doubly pleased that the equation and boosting worked. He took McCoy aside to explain that now the signal was much stronger, less likely blocked by radiation or magnets or high energy pulse beams. That it was more efficient, and even McCoy's inherent dislike for the technology eased a bit at how it was less 'fuzzy' in Scotty's words.

It'd be one less thing for him to worry about when Jim went off on one of his damn fool plans. He made his way back up to Sickbay, finished his paperwork and shook his head at the handful of untreated crew-members. At least this shit was simple to deal with. The day wound down after the last hypo was administered, the last of the records edited and sent into the ship's system. McCoy decided to reward himself for not throttling anyone too badly or making any of his Nurses cry with a glass of bourbon. Chapel even looked the other way and made sure no one bothered him in his office.

"...Bones?" Jim's voice at his door just as he was about to take a sip. McCoy sighed and shoved back from his desk to walk around and open the door.

"What is it...Jim? Jim." McCoy stared.

The Captain of the Enterprise was sweating bright blue. The same damn shade as his eyes, in fact. He raised a hand to McCoy, his grin somewhat embarrassed. "Um. Uhura. Kind of. Well, she got me Bones."

"I can see that." McCoy stepped past his idiot captain and hauled him by the shoulder over to the nearest biobed. Jim sat while McCoy filled out his damn form, grumbling under his breath the whole time. He only interrupted with silly and inane questions. The highlight of which made McCoy choke and threaten several different hypos and vaccines that would have Jim out of commission for a month.

"Makes you wonder..." Jim paused at the door. Innocent. Far, far too innocent. McCoy should know better by now.

"Wonder what Jim?"

"Would the blue sperm create blue babies?"

"Get out!" If McCoy threw a tray of sharp objects after the giggling, fleeing captain no one said anything. They knew better by now as well.

Days later, after everyone was finally perspiring at a normal rate, and in the usual color or lack thereof, Jim slid in next to McCoy in the officer's mess. His grin was far too wide for any good to come from what he opened his mouth to say.

"Whatever it is, No."

"Oh come on Bones, I wasn't gonna ask for anything."

"Then I don't want to know."

"Really? But it's important!"

"...What?"

"Remember the thing I wanted to know about the reaction to the pollen?"

"...What? What did you want to-...no. Oh no. You didn't-"

"We TOTALLY do!"

"DAMMIT Jim!"

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

So my first full chapter is done, edited, proofed several times (many thanks to Rebel Paisley, my little sis, for suffering through my insecurities) and posted. Also, the line where McCoy is asking Scotty how he pulled up the console is supposed to have a question-mark followed by an exclamation point, but this site decrees that you can have but one form of punctuation at the end of a sentence, not two. So there's that. Um. Concrit is appreciated, reviews are like candy, and I hope you all enjoyed this installment of The Long List.

Muse out.


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